


I swear to god that I was thinking about the summer

by suzukiblu



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Frotting, Hand Jobs, Healing Sex, M/M, PWP, Pre-Ant-Man, Touch-Starved, We're Up All Night To Get Bucky, post-AoU, well Sam might be at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 22:52:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6678598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suzukiblu/pseuds/suzukiblu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Goddammit,” Barnes says, grimacing. “You were supposed to be the <i>easy</i> target.” </p>
<p>“Yeah, no, he’s three doors down,” Sam replies wryly, jerking his head towards the door. “But it’s not a trick question, man, I’m just asking what you want.” </p>
<p>“Sex,” Barnes says. </p>
<p>“Yes,” Sam says, expression dry. “I was here for that part of the conversation.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I swear to god that I was thinking about the summer

**Author's Note:**

> I felt like writing porn and also Sam Wilson. Bucky nobly volunteered to help with that. 
> 
> (working title “CAPTAIN AMERICA NEEDS MY DICK”)

“This is definitely not SOP,” Sam says. 

“Quiet,” the Winter Soldier grumbles. Sam should really not think of Barnes as the Winter Soldier, honestly, but it’s hard not to when in ninety-nine percent of their previous meetings he was wearing black tac gear and murder-face. 

Then again, he’s not wearing either of those things right now; he’s in ratty-ass jeans, a grungy tank top, and a beat-to-hell flannel shirt, and just looks kind of petulant more than anything else. Admittedly, though, that might just be his face. More importantly, he’s sitting on Sam’s stomach, in the dark, in the middle of the night, and hasn’t stabbed him yet. 

There aren’t any visible guns or knives at all, actually, so . . . small favors, Sam guesses, although he knows that doesn’t mean there _aren’t_ any guns or knives. Actually, what’s he even saying, not being able to see any weapons probably _increases_ the amount of potential weapons. 

“How quiet?” he asks, debating yelling for Steve. He’s a couple rooms over--the motel didn’t have any side-by-sides left and they usually split up every fourth night so they aren’t _constantly_ in each other’s pockets--but super-soldier hearing would probably catch it. The real question is if Barnes would make with the stabbing if he did it. 

It’s kind of a shame he isn’t more prone to panic, Sam reflects; if he’d just yelled as soon as he woke up to the Winter Soldier sitting on him like he’d been there who knew how the fuck long, well, at least he’d know if he was dead or not by now. This way the situation is a little more . . . nebulous. 

“The fuck kind of question is that?” the Winter Soldier asks with an annoyed frown. Sam’s eyebrows raise. Well. Okay then. 

“The valid kind, I was thinking,” he says. “You know Steve’s like three doors down, right?” 

“I’m brain-damaged, not stupid. There’s a fucking difference,” the Winter Soldier snaps, and okay, _now_ Sam can think of him as Barnes. Now it’s actually not hard at all. 

“Excuse me for assuming you were looking for the guy you actually _knew_ ,” he says, propping himself up on his elbows and raising his hands off the sheets in imitation of a placating gesture. “Crazy assumption, don’t know where I got an idea like that.” 

“I’m not looking for Steve. I want to have sex,” Barnes says. Sam takes a moment, eyebrows popping back up again. 

“So what, you want the room?” he asks doubtfully, briefly wondering if Barnes left some poor woman on the sidewalk. Barnes scowls. 

“I want _to have sex_ ,” he repeats. Sam keeps up with the doubtful expression for about another two seconds before he makes the connection. 

“Oh. _Oh!_ ” he exclaims, eyes widening in surprise. “Geez, man, aren’t you supposed to be some kinda pickup artist, that’s the best line you got?” 

Barnes sighs and blows his hair out of his face with an annoyed expression, then completely changes his posture and leans back on his hands, bracing them on Sam’s thighs. Sam is suddenly very aware of exactly what part of him the guy is sitting _on_. 

“Uh,” he says. 

“I want to have sex,” Barnes says, looking down at him through his lashes. He barely changes the tone of his voice at all, but that change is fucking _significant_. 

“Well okay then,” Sam says, because obviously if it’s him Barnes is asking he’s got a reason, and also Barnes is a damn handsome specimen and he is perfectly willing to be the honeypot if that’s what it takes to mellow the man out enough that he and Steve can have a reasonable conversation and do whatever sad-sack super-soldiers do to get over themselves. Probably take out more HYDRA leftovers, which is what they’re all doing already, but it’d be nice to know things like when Barnes had set a bomb or was about to walk straight into one of _their_ bombs, for example. 

God, that’d been a shit week. 

He doesn’t really have the time to reminisce, though, because he’s barely gotten out the “okay” before Barnes is going for his fly like--pardon the phrasing--a man on a mission. They’ve been on-the-go hard enough for long enough that going to bed fully-dressed had seemed like a good idea two hours ago, but right now Sam is kind of regretting the decision. He lifts his hips to make it easy for the guy, because Barnes likes destroying things but Sam likes these jeans, and also doesn’t feel like buying more again since the incident in Newark. 

They are never going back to Newark. 

“Roll over,” Barnes says shortly, dragging Sam’s jeans down his hips. Sam gives him a dubious look in response, the rising mood immediately broken. 

“Sure, man, ‘cause I’m really feelin’ it,” he drawls. Barnes pauses, then looks briefly embarrassed, then _scowls_. 

“I know how to do this,” he says. 

“I’m sure you do, but ‘this’ ain’t no rodeo so maybe you could avoid acting like you’re about to ride a bull and maybe spend a little more time on the eye contact, that’d be nice,” Sam retorts dryly, raising his eyebrows meaningfully again. Barnes’s scowl and embarrassment both visibly deepen. 

Sam doesn’t actually know what Barnes wants here. Judging by previous incidents, if he was trying to distract them from something he’d probably just have committed arson, if he wanted information he’d have found somebody to terrify it out of, and if he wanted to avoid Steve, well, Sam’s bed is just about the least likely place in the world to manage that since the guy splits a room with him three nights out of four. Frankly, he’s more confused Barnes isn’t in _Steve’s_ bed right now--he doesn’t actually know if Steve swings that way, mind, but it’s looking increasingly like all Barnes wants is to get to feel _good_ for once, and there’s not much Steve wouldn’t do to give him that. 

Well, maybe that’s why he’s not in Steve’s bed, Sam thinks, watching Barnes shift back slightly in his lap. 

“I’m not just gonna--I’ll get you off, I’m not some asshole,” Barnes mutters, mouth twisting a little too roughly. With another partner Sam’d probably reach out and thumb the corner of it in an attempt to soothe the tension out of the expression, but he and Steve found video of the wiping procedure a few HYDRA bases ago and Sam absolutely never wants to put a hand anywhere near Bucky Barnes’s mouth if he hasn’t explicitly asked for it first. Preferably in triplicate. 

“If you want, sure,” Sam replies, watching him carefully. “We got other options if you don’t, though.” 

“I--what?” Barnes looks confused, which is actually kind of awful because HYDRA clearly stripped him down to the _bone_ and few scattered meetings that they’ve had, Sam has already noticed that when he’s nervous or unsettled he doesn’t seem to be able to school his face at all. And inevitably, it’s never just the confusion that ends up showing. 

“Other options,” Sam repeats, because this is not a damn therapy couch and Barnes isn’t ready for one anyway. “I mean, if you want the full ride on this fine piece of ass I will entirely understand, I don’t blame you, _look_ at me, but if you just need a hand real quick before you pull another runner that’s on the table too. We don’t have to get any closer than you want.” 

“Goddammit,” Barnes says, grimacing. “You were supposed to be the _easy_ target.” 

“Yeah, no, he’s three doors down,” Sam replies wryly, jerking his head towards the door. “But it’s not a trick question, man, I’m just asking what you want.” 

“Sex,” Barnes says. 

“Yes,” Sam says, expression dry. “I was here for that part of the conversation. It was about thirty seconds ago, as I recall.” 

“Ass,” Barnes growls, giving him a little shove. Sam’s so surprised by how _gentle_ it is that he goes down with it anyway, and then Barnes’s eyes go kind of soft and hot and he leans forward again and okay, this is a _much_ better mood, Sam thinks, telegraphing blatantly as he lifts his hands up to touch the other’s shoulders. That may actually be a bad idea, he realizes once it’s already too late to abort, but Barnes doesn’t seem to mind so Sam rolls with it. 

“Vast improvement already,” he tells him with a smirk, rubbing his thumbs into the hollows of Barnes’s shoulders. For obvious reasons it works better with the one than the other, but he does both anyway. “Grade-A eye contact, for one, very smooth.” 

“Shut up,” Barnes says, and kisses him. It’s all very dumb roadtrip-romcom, except for the horrible backstory and the dead people and how that is probably _actually_ a gun digging into Sam’s hip. Sam kisses back anyway, sliding his hands up over the top of Barnes’s shoulders easily but not being either dumb enough or dick enough to touch his neck uninvited. He wasn’t kidding about the triplicate thing. 

Barnes is a surprisingly good kisser, for being--Sam _hopes_ \--seventy-odd years out of practice. Softer than Sam would’ve expected; he’d have thought the Winter Soldier would be harsher, would demand more and really put his _teeth_ into it. 

But then again, the Winter Soldier never got to demand anything, did he. And it’s not the Winter Soldier in his lap right now anyway. 

“I want--” Barnes stops himself, a strange expression flickering across his face, and Sam waits carefully because HYDRA probably burned those words out of him years ago and if he’s gotta be patient to hear what goes with them, well, he’s done much harder things for much less reason. 

Barnes doesn’t say anything else, though, just shakes his head and kisses him again. Sam kisses back, letting him take the lead. He’s not sure the man even knows what he’s comfortable with, so as long as he doesn’t start seeming like he’s pushing himself too hard it’s probably best to go at his pace. 

Not that he’s necessarily complaining about that pace, Sam reflects as Barnes starts shoving his shirt up with a restless noise. 

“I want,” Barnes repeats in a low murmur like it’s a full sentence, his hands slipping up Sam’s sides under the shirt. The metal one, to Sam’s mild surprise, is not as cold as it’s always looked--it’s room temperature, more or less, and he can feel the subtle vibration of inner machinery working inside it. That is . . . very distracting, is what that is. Which is ridiculous, because it’s next to nothing, except at the same time it’s like feeling someone’s pulse, a bizarre mechanical intimacy. 

“Okay,” Sam says, kissing him again. He squeezes Barnes’s shoulders and Barnes curls his fingers against his ribs with a dirty little grunt, then ducks down the bed to mouth at his chest. Sam automatically expects teeth, but Barnes is all soft damp lips and nothing else. 

Somehow, that’s even _more_ distracting. 

Barnes’s hands slide down his sides and grip his hips tight and Sam slides his own down over the other’s intact deltoid and bicep and their mechanical imitations, squeezing again. Barnes makes a very soft noise that’s barely more than an exhalation and presses his mouth tight against Sam’s breastbone, head ducked low enough that Sam can’t see his face at all. 

He lets go of the other to strip his shirt off properly and Barnes makes that soft almost-noise again and lifts his head a little to track the motion and also to make sure Sam’s not going for a weapon, although he does a pretty good job of making it look like he just wanted to kiss up to his throat. Sam wouldn’t have called him on it either way. 

Barnes shrugs off the flannel shirt and Sam helps, mostly just for the excuse to get the other used to his hands on him. Barnes seems all for it; he presses into every point of contact like--well. Like he hasn’t been touched in forever, more or less. Sam isn’t exactly surprised by the reaction, even if it’s not the one he would’ve expected. 

Barnes kisses the corner of his mouth, stubble rasping lightly across his jaw in the process, and Sam hums in quiet acknowledgement and makes a point of rubbing his own back against him. Barnes makes a funny little noise that Sam can’t classify but doesn’t worry about, mostly because Barnes takes the moment to get a thigh between his legs and _rub_. 

_“Fuck,”_ Sam mutters appreciatively, and Barnes makes that funny little noise again but doesn’t stop; kisses Sam’s throat and rubs his thigh up against Sam’s cock in a way that should _not_ feel so good with his underwear and Barnes’s jeans in the way but really, really does. Sam slides one hand down the other’s back and pushes the other up the back of his head to encourage the kissing, which would’ve worked out better for him if Barnes didn’t immediately get so distracted pushing into the petting that he forgot about the kissing altogether. It’s--cute, maybe. Or depressing. 

Sam’s going to make himself go with “cute”, even if it is 200-something pounds of super-soldier he’s calling that. It’s better for his own mental health. 

He tugs Barnes into another kiss, and Barnes falls right into it, easy and effortless like Sam knows damn well this is _not_ , not for either of them. Part of him is still very aware of black tac gear and the sensation of falling, and with the flannel shirt off Barnes’s hidden weapons aren’t all quite as hidden as before. 

The arm is _definitely_ not hidden anymore. 

“Ah,” Barnes manages breathlessly between their mouths, the sound a little ghost of nothing, not even the start of a word. Sam kisses him again for it, and gets kissed back harder. He’s naked except for his underwear; Barnes is dressed except for that flannel shirt. It makes something in Sam itch with the need to reach for the knife under his pillow or the gun behind the headboard, but he’s not Steve and he’s not Barnes--he can sleep at night, most nights. He didn’t have to drag his sheets to the floor and lay out flat on the carpet like a corpse last night, or the night before, or even the night before that. 

The night before that, yes, but not every night. Not anymore. 

“You’re alright, man, you got it,” Sam murmurs, pushing a hand up Barnes’s flank. Barnes shudders like the gesture is something a thousand times more intense, then buries his face in Sam’s shoulder and worms a hand down between them to cup his half-hard cock. Sam breathes out roughly, head tipping back. 

It’s the damn _metal_ hand. 

“That safe?” he asks raspily, hips rolling up into the contact anyway. Barnes tenses, and Sam closes his eyes and breathes out again. “Relax, man, I’m just asking. If it’s safe, then go for it.” 

“I--dunno,” Barnes rasps quietly, lifting his head just enough to let Sam catch a glimpse of his troubled expression when he opens his eyes. Barnes is very clearly Steve Rogers’s kind of people, though, because a second later he just switches hands and pushes the flesh-and-blood one in under the waistband of Sam’s boxer briefs. Sam would roll his eyes or something, except he is _also_ Steve Rogers’s kind of people and also, there is currently a warm, gun-calloused hand wrapping itself around his dick. He’s not gonna pretend like he’s above that. 

“Good enough,” he huffs, dragging a hand across the back of Barnes’s shoulders, fingers catching briefly on a weapons holster or two in the process. Or more, actually, but he’s not actually _counting_ right now. Barnes’s hand is just shy of too tight around him and his grip makes Sam want to buck and bite, but he settles for dropping his hands to tug at the front of the other’s jeans. “All clear?” he asks breathlessly. 

“Fucking _touch_ me,” Barnes half-hisses, half-pleads, hips pushing forward against Sam’s hands. Which yeah, okay, fair enough. 

“This from the man who left all his damn _clothes_ on,” Sam grunts, biting back a groan as Barnes’s hand twists around him and just barely keeping his focus on the task of getting the other’s jeans open and a hand on his cock. Barnes immediately grabs his tank top with the metal hand and literally _tears it off_. 

Sam pauses, because--okay. Yeah. He needs a moment for that, okay? He is just one man, goddammit, he did not go to bed tonight knowing he was going to have to be prepared for a goddamn super-soldier to shred his own shirt because he’d snarked at him a little. To shred his own shirt without taking his hand off Sam’s _dick_ , even. 

_“Fuck,”_ Sam manages again, and Barnes wriggles up just enough to start dragging his jeans down over his hips. Sam lunges up into him in a way that normally he would be smarter than to do with a shellshocked super-soldier, and Barnes gasps into his mouth as they crash together and rubs him _just_ fucking right. Sam finds himself being the one to put his teeth into things, and they roll over onto their sides, violent and awkward as they both trip over each other trying to get Barnes out of his damn jeans. Bastard _had_ to pick a tight pair. 

The mood’s definitely sticking the landing, at least. 

“Jesus, goddamn, _Jesus_ ,” Barnes gasps out, groans, and Sam pushes in so tight that their chests and stomachs crush together. Barnes’s metal arm feels cold now, but maybe that’s just because the rest of him’s so fucking _hot_ all of a sudden. _“Wilson--”_

“Wondered if you knew my name,” Sam says, managing to sound respectably close to casual, to his own surprise. 

“Wilson, Wilson, _Wilson_ ,” Barnes shoots back roughly, rolling his hips into Sam’s. Sam has to bite down on his shoulder to repress what would’ve otherwise been a yell that _definitely_ would’ve gotten Steve’s super-soldier hearing’s attention, but picks the wrong one and nearly breaks a tooth. 

“Shit!” he hisses, clapping a hand to his mouth. Barnes makes that funny little noise again, rocking their hips together harder, and then Sam finally recognizes it--it’s a _laugh_. Or the closest thing to one Barnes can make, apparently, but . . . 

“Wilson,” he purrs raspily, working a hand between them again and grabbing both their dicks. He uses the flesh-and-blood one this time, which means Sam has exactly zero distractions from how fucking _good_ it feels when he starts stroking. He jerks forward even tighter against Barnes, and Barnes does his damnedest to return the favor, pushing in so close he’s barely got room to _move_ that damn hand. 

Sam is not even pretending to complain. 

“Harder,” he bites off, clinging roughly to the other’s back. Barnes makes his almost-laugh again and listens very, _very_ well. “Nnnn-- _fuck_! Fuck, fuck and god _damn_ , Barnes--!” 

“Yeah,” Barnes breathes, a weird hitch in both his voice and his hand. “S’my name.” 

There’s a lot to unpack there and a lot Sam could say to that too, but this is not really the time to be doing it, so instead he just does what Barnes did himself and repeats himself: “Barnes, Barnes, _Barnes_ \--” 

Barnes comes to that, or at least during it, and Sam kisses him through it. He tastes like salt and metal, or sweat and blood, and kisses back messy and twice as hard. Sam makes a point of kissing back harder. The way the guy looks--yeah. Of course he does. 

“Better?” he asks breathlessly, repressing the desire to wrap a hand around the other’s and finish himself off too. He’s got that much patience, at least. Barnes just noises back incoherently, hiding his face again as he adjusts his grip to let go of his own softening cock and refocus all his attention on Sam’s still-aching one, his own spilled come slick and sticky all over his fingers. Sam does not dissuade him, for obvious reasons. 

Barnes is still shuddering. Or maybe just shaking. His hand is steady, though, and just the right kind of too-tight, and Sam pants into his shoulder, breath fogging the metal of his arm. He feels like he could fall right off the bed, even though he’s nowhere near the edge. He feels a fucking _lot_ of things, including a weird desire to laugh as he remembers earlier, and Barnes indignantly promising him a reach-around with a scowl. 

This is _much_ better than they started out. 

Barnes squeezes a little tighter, puts just a _little_ more twist in his wrist, and Sam comes as easy as anything. He bites down on the wrong shoulder again, but Barnes laughs again too, and that’s . . . that’s something, Sam thinks as he melts down into the bed with a low groan. Fuck. Fuuuuck. He feels like he could melt all the way to the _floor_. 

“Better,” Barnes murmurs back, finally, although it takes Sam a moment to remember he’d asked. “Thanks.” 

“Good,” he manages, still not entirely sure he isn’t going to liquefy entirely and soak right through the mattress. The idea has definite merit, but might also require moving, which, hah, _hell_ no is he doing _that_ anytime soon. Rogers can come and peel him off the mattress in the morning, if he’s _lucky_. 

Also, though, Barnes just _thanked_ him. So that’s . . . a thing, definitely. That just happened. 

Jesus. 

“Mm,” Barnes says, tensing very slightly like he thinks _he’s_ gonna move, and Sam’s arms automatically come up and wrap around him again. Barnes tenses for another second and Sam nearly lets go, but then Barnes ends up melting too and spills himself all over him. Sam almost laughs himself, this time. He has no _idea_ what he’s supposed to do with this guy, which admittedly was also how he felt this morning and yesterday and for the past few months and even kicking him in the back the first time and getting a steering wheel torn out of his hands, but which he feels in a _real_ different way now. 

Although--yeah, well. It’s up to Barnes what gets done with Barnes, for once. And he’s done this much, hasn’t he? 

“Not gonna stay,” Barnes murmurs quietly after a few minutes, hiding his face against the mattress next to Sam’s throat as he speaks. The gesture’s as soft and careful as anything he’s done, even though he’s not even doing it to Sam himself. “Don’t trust myself.” 

“It’s cool, man,” Sam assures him lowly in return, settling a heavy hand on the other’s hip and feeling Barnes automatically press into the touch. He didn’t really think it was gonna be this easy anyway, although he won’t pretend it wouldn’t have been nice if it were. Still. He’s done harder. “Not sure I trust you yet either.” 

With that, the tension finally drains completely out of Barnes’s shoulders and he relaxes against Sam’s side, head tucking into his shoulder. He lies very still and very quiet, and doesn’t do anything else. 

Sam figures he can forgive himself the lie, if it lets Barnes sleep. Well--it’s not a lie, honestly. But it did _feel_ like one, when he said it. 

He thinks that’s enough to work with, for now.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](http://suzukiblu.tumblr.com/) ❤

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] I SWEAR TO GOD THAT I WAS THINKING ABOUT THE SUMMER](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9115498) by [RsCreighton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton)




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